Ink
by Dark Seroph
Summary: A life can be summed up in a few paragraphs. Even for the greatest heroes, the same can be said. A dragon's soul trapped in a mortal body wrote his life in a journal, the journey set out by the Divines laid out in ink on a page.
1. Pages

_My beloved boy,_

_If you've set your hands on this journal, than I am dead and I never said goodbye. I could prattle on for ages about the things that I should have told you before the end, fill these pages with a mother's advice and sorrows, but that's not what you need right now. Right now you need to run. Do not read the rest of this journal until you are safe. Perhaps I have already put you in danger by saying so much. But run, please. Live. Sovengard has no need of a hero so young as you._

The blood in his veins thrummed with life, terror spiking his adrenalin until his hands shook and the journal threatened to tumble from his hands. Bright green eyes stood open, his shocked expression engraved into his face like a statue. When his mother had said to read the book when the dawn peeked above the horizon, he had never even begun to fathom that inside the pages would be her final farewell.

Outside thunder cracked, shaking the wooden walls of the house he had lived in all his life, snapping him back to reality. Outside the wind was howling like a hundred wolves crying for blood, rain pelting the shutters and rattling them, straining against the latches and threatening to knock them inwards with the force of the gale outside. Over the racket of the impending storm he could never have heard the cell of Justicars heading towards the lone farm just outside of the city walls. He couldn't hear their conversation of how they planned to surround the house before blowing down the door to keep anyone inside from escaping. All he could hear was the rapid rush of his own heart and the clattering as he knocked over a candle in his haste to stuff the journal in a bag full of supplies that had been packed with just such an escape in mind by a mother with the gift of foresight.

The boy left through the back door, the upset candle kindling a small fire on the corner sheet of a bed that quickly began to spread. But there was no time to think about that. He would never be coming back here again.

The storm welcomed him into its embrace, fairly sucking him out of the house with a powerful gale that cracked a nearby tree, sending a huge branch toppling to the ground in a whirl of splinters and leaves. Overhead the thunder roared, an arm of lightning striking the ground so close that for a moment the boy was blinded, shielding his eyes behind an upraised arm and a curtain of thick brown hair that had plastered itself to his face almost the second he stepped out into the tempest. But he couldn't stay. His fear nipped at his heels, forcing him to pick up his feet and head out into the night.

A bolt of lightning sizzled the air and sent a shock wave through the ground right in front of him, kicking up a clod of sodden muddy dirt. The boy whipped around to see a tall figure cloaked in gold-trimmed black robes building another lightning bolt in his hand and immediately the boy dove for cover, the next shock of mage lightning missing him by only a hair's breadth. But he didn't stop, rolling to his feet and kept on into the night, fleeing desperately as the mud slid under his feet, propelling him down the slick hill that their house rested on. Behind him the mage yelled something indistinguishable over the noise of the storm and sent another handful of bolts after the boy.

The chase was on, two of the Justicars skidding after the boy in the rain and the mud, egging him on, corralling him as they came in on either side, their longer legs allowing them to catch up faster even though they slipped and slid worse in the mud than the boy did. Just ahead an old tree creaked in the gale, its wide leafless branches spreading out like clawed hands whose form was only defined whenever the lightning speared the sky and made the earth tremble. The boy's foot caught, sending him flying face-first into the mud and he slid under the shadow of that great tree. The Justicars, sensing an end to the chase called out in victory, charging their spells with harsh words on their lips. The boy looked up with fearful eyes, trying desperately to scramble to his feet as the elves advanced on him.

Lightning struck again, this time on the ancient leafless tree. The blinding light numbed all of their senses, the following crash of noise so loud that it was as if the earth itself had split in half to devour them all whole, making a sound as if some ancient beast had opened its maw and let out a terrifying bellow. The tree cracked, rent in half by the lightning, and half of the ancient clawed thing began to fall as if in slow motion. The boy held on to some of his senses, moving sideways from the tons of falling wood and avoided the severed trunk that tried its best to crush him. The Justicars were not so lucky, and their screams as they were impaled and squished beneath the tree pierced even the violent gale of the storm.

He did not wait. His feet carried him away from the grizzly scene of blood mixing with the blood in rivulets as the rain poured down on unseeing eyes. The boy ran until the storm blew itself out and he was in the foothills of the mountains, shivering and miserable in a tiny cave that would only fit a child and his pack.

The daylight broke, and even though the ordeal had tired him, the boy could not sleep. He was haunted by the screams of the dying elves and the fear that they would find him hidden here. Light streamed into the small indent in the rock that the boy had taken shelter in, illuminating his shivering form. With fingers stiff from cold and fear, the boy undressed himself, wringing out the sopping clothes he wore and pulled a long thin shirt that was more dry than damp from his pack and put it on in place of his clothes which he left to dry in the sunlight. Hesitantly, he took out the journal, holding it in his hand and simply staring at the worn pages for a long time before flipping open to the first page, reading over again the single paragraph on the page, the rest left intentionally blank.

He read over the words again, the shock of them lessening now that the house was long behind him and two of his pursuers dead. He was too numb to be bothered about the death of his mother, too afraid to cry, though the choking sensation in his throat told him he dearly wanted to sob until no more tears would come.

_My dear son... I never wanted it to end this way. I wanted to watch you reach manhood, to help you shape your life until you no longer needed me. I wanted to be there when you found a wife and held your first child in your arms. I wanted to tell you when I was old and grey on my death bed how much I loved you and that all I ever wanted was your happiness. That was the ending this mother wanted for her son. But that is not the ending that I have brought upon myself._

_Do not seek revenge. This is beyond you my beloved boy, and I would not see you waste your life on a corpse. My spirit is in Sovngarde and from there I will watch you all the days of your life until you are called to be here with the great heroes. You have the same wildness as your father; the same hearty blood of the Nords that coursed through his veins is also in you. I hope you grow to be a strong and noble man like him and not like the silly milk-drinking mother that could only watch him be taken away from the both of us. I regret every day that you never knew him, and it seems unfair that now I too have been taken from you._

_It will be hard, but do not dwell in the past. You are alive, and you should stay that way. Forge your own path through the days to come. Be honorable, courageous and brave. Never settle for second best. Push yourself and grab whatever destiny lies before you. Tame that destiny and make it your own. Be your own master. Show loyalty to those who are loyal to you, serve only those who are worthy of service, and show kindness to those who follow you in turn. You have the makings of greatness my son, and I love you more than simple ink on a page could ever tell. Be strong, and know that I was always proud of you._

The journal fell from his hands, landing page-down on the hard surface of the cave floor. The knot that had been restricting his breathing loosened, unleashing a well of tears that fell silently as the boy fell asleep, the last of his strength spent on finishing the page.


	2. Years

Heya, sorry for no introduction blurb last chapter. I didn't want to interrupt the flow of the chapter. It just felt better without an author's note hanging about. I want to thank Jake the Reaper and ShiftySpaceCow for taking a risk on a new story and leaving reviews. I was very happy to see the commentary in my inbox! I feel validated to be starting a new story more than a year after the game is over. So, now, disclaimers and such.

I've used this journal/letter style in a one-shot for "Memoirs of a Warden" here on ffnet and I really liked the ability to express character development without having to get bogged down with lots of details. Not all of the chapters will have journal entries, and not all of them will have action sequences interspersed between the journals. It's really a mix and match, depending on how I feel that an event will be best displayed and which style gives me more to work with. This is going to be one of those chapters that's all journal entries and covers several years up until the boy heads to Skyrim for his date with destiny. Also, as a warning, yes, I did spell "jarl" wrong on purpose, and I will continue to do so in the journal entries for at least the next chapter or two. I just thought it was fun.

Obviously, I am not Bathesda. If I were, I wouldn't be posting on fanfiction. It's really that simple.

* * *

_Sun's Height, 6, 4E 192_

I don't know what to write. I've never been good at it. Ma taught me plenty about writing. She said it was handy if you wanted to say something you couldn't tell anyone. I don't know why. It just cramps my hand.

* * *

_Sun's Height, 10, 4E 192_

Went back to the house today. It was all gone. I don't know if they burned it down, or destroyed it with magic. It's gone. They're still looking for me. I almost got caught by one of those Atronach things. Maybe I'll be safe in the next town.

* * *

_Sun's Height, 15, 4E 192_

Ma told me they were called Justicars once. Her superiors called them other things. The people in this town all call them bastards, but only whispered. Bought some cheese and bread today, but I can't stay. They've got eyes all around this close to the Capital.

* * *

_Sun's Height, 16, 4E 192_

Cyrodiil isn't safe. Learned that much the hard way. The elves didn't know who I was. Just an urchin. They kicked me around, stole my pack. But I got it back. Ma thought I never learned any of her magic, but I did a bit. I have one of their weapons now. It's big and heavy, but it's better than running around with only fireballs.

* * *

_Sun's Height, 19, 4E 192_

I miss home. I hate running. I hate stealing. I'm hiding now with the grains and some chickens in a caravan headed across the border. Maybe I'll make it out of this damned country and be free finally.

* * *

_Heartfire, 20, 4E 196_

By all the gods, I never thought I'd see this blasted thing again. Almost forgot about it. I had to kill a mate to get it back, but that's the turn of life I suppose. Or at least as far as I've seen it. Mother, if somehow you can read this, then I want to say I'm sorry. I didn't turn out the way you wanted me to. I'm not the hero you wanted your boy to grow up to be. I'm just a sword for hire. And a particularly treacherous one at that. That day at the border when I lost this journal landed me here. It feels like I've been working the cracks for loose change every day since to keep eating. But it's probably better than the alternative.

I got across the border just fine, but barely a mile into Hammerfell we were ambushed. I cowered with the chickens clutching my stolen sword until the highwaymen found me. I put up enough of a fight that they thought it was funny, so they kept me alive. Eventually I joined them, became a marauder of the backlands, and I've been doing that for a few years. Last week got ugly though. Old Chief wanted us to put the sword to a bunch of women and children. I wasn't the only one who didn't agree, but I'm ashamed to say that I wasn't the one who led the charge. We went our separate ways after the dust and blood settled. I found this journal when one of my old mates decided he'd try his hand at assassination. Even with a brace of broken ribs that idiot stood no chance. Right now I'm laid up, living on what I got off the dead bastard and giving myself a bit of time to heal. This inn has terrible soup and ugly women though, so I'll probably move on. Broken ribs or not.

* * *

_Heartfire, 21, 4E 196_

Decided not to move on. It hurts to stand too much, and the thought of walking makes me nauseous. I thought I could tough it out, but I had a coughing fit today and that nearly killed me. Luckily my pitiful state has convinced the innkeeper's wife that I'm a pour soul in need of a little mercy, so they've cut my rate in half. I can stay for a couple of weeks with the coin that I've got left, so I probably will. The innkeeper's wife is a lot like you used to be, mother. All smiles and handing out kindness to anything that even vaguely resembled a wet kitten. Which includes me, apparently. Scruffy, unkempt and rough as I'm sure as I look. These past few years I've earned my share of scars all in the name of not dying. Sometimes I think those bandits were trying to kill me when they claimed they were helping develop my battle skills. Toughens you! Hah! I've met tougher milkmaids then some of those blasted men. But they're dead now, so no point in dwelling on it.

* * *

_Heartfire, 22, 4E 196_

Woke up to a sneeze. I swear, if I don't get better immediately I'll die from breathing too hard. Where's a priest when you need one? Actually, I know the answer to that. There's talk of rebellion in Skyrim. I was there a little while ago, running with my clan. The caravans were all headed that way so of course we helped ourselves to their wares. You always said that my father's wildness stemmed from his homeland. That I was so much like him. I wonder if that's true. The damned elves have been cracking down on the anti-Talos laws that the Emperor forced on us in the White-Gold concordant. A battle before my time, one that you fought in… What would you think of this new development? I know you fought the Thalmor. I know that they were the ones that killed you in the end. I figured out that much for myself after I had time to think about it. Part of me wants the rumors of the rebellion to quiet. The Empire can't be divided, not broken, not weak. Hammerfell is already a dangerous place with their civil wars and rebellions against the elves. But a part of me wants to join the cause. The whole of the empire was founded on the legacy of Talos, a god of men. I couldn't abandon him as much as I could abandon Akatosh. To do so would be… to uproot the foundations of what made our country good, I think. Too much philosophy for now. I was never good at that. Going to try and sleep again. Hopefully the coughing and sneezing is over with for now.

* * *

_Heartfire, 23, 4E 196_

Mara apparently favors me. One of her priests stopped at the inn today. The innkeeper's wife talked to the man during dinner service, and the next thing I know the man is healing me. I'm still sore, but at least I can breathe without worrying that I'm going to puncture a lung. I plan on leaving early tomorrow morning. I've got a fresh start here now. There's no clan to hold loyalty too. It's just me. Maybe I'll head back to Cyrodiil. It's been a while since I've been to my native country.

* * *

_Heartfire, 29, 4E 196_

The house is completely gone. I didn't think that I would return, but I had to, to see what was left of it. A little bit of the flagstone remains and a chunk of wall that's more ivy vines than wood is still standing at the northern end. Anything left after the fire and the Justicars has long since been pillaged. I'm spending the night in the clearing; it's the only truly flat place. There's something comforting about starting my new life in the same place my old life started. A neat little bookend. Tomorrow I'll head to the Capital and see if anyone is in need of a hired hand. With some luck, I can rise in the ranks from petty bandit to sword-for-hire. It would certainly be a nice change of pace, and would probably pay better too.

* * *

_Frostfall, 17, 4E 196_

I was completely wrong. Most of my first week in the capital was spent just telling north from south. The rest of it was spent avoiding the damned Thalmor. They're everywhere here, keeping an eye on things and "fostering relations". Usually that means dragging anyone that looks at them sideways into a dungeon from which they never return. I know that they aren't looking for me, but I can't help but feel like their eyes are always watching me. The asking price for a sword arm is usually around 500 septims, but I wanted to get out bad enough that I just forked over my life to the highest bidder. Which was 276 septims, in case anyone cares. Apparently there's bandits that need to be dead, and I look tough enough to handle them. We'll see how many of my old mates I have to kill.

* * *

_Morning Star, 17, 4E 201_

I started off the New Year by hiding out in a cave in the hills north of Chorrol and ambushing some smugglers for the Imperials. There's been a shortage of guards lately here in the Imperial City. Seems like half the Legion has been deployed to Skyrim. Some say the ports in High Rock and Morrowind are full of the Imperials, but I wouldn't know. It's sketchy information at best. I got a bodyguard job from some fool in a robe with a lot of coin. We'll see how this goes, but I think this guy is liable to die even if I spend the whole time breathing down his neck.

* * *

_Sun's Dawn, 1, 4E 201_

The moron _was_ a scholar, but now he's dead. Sometimes I hate being right. He wanted to do research on the Mythic Dawn cult, so we started by visiting the locations of their old meet points. Trudging through snow and bandits and bears and whatever else. Then we got to a cave that had been half torn down. He said it was their main base once upon a time, razed after the Crisis by rioters. As luck would have it, there was a cave-in on the hillside so that we could get in. I told the fool that it was a terrible idea to go in, but he wouldn't be swayed. Unsurprisingly, bandits were living in the cave. I saw Killad. He probably joined up with this little band after we all went our separate ways. I suppose some guys just never grow out of banditry. He turned on his mates when he saw it was me, but the old cad took an arrow in the eye and the scholar a sword through the chest. Leaving me to clean up the mess. Typical.

I'm camped out now. Free board and food to the victor I suppose. I'll lay low here a while. Until the food's gone at least and explore the cave a bit. Maybe there's something here worth bringing back to the Capital to sell.

* * *

_Sun's Dawn, 2, 4E 201_

I don't know what it is about this place, but it gives me the shivers. I thought I heard a voice while exploring, but I think I'm just going crazy from being alone with these dead bodies. I'm getting out before ghosts of the Mythic Dawn start trying to possess me.

* * *

_Sun's Dawn, 3, 4E 201_

The bandit's gear got me some coin, but not nearly enough. So I'm looking for work again. The scholar didn't tell me the whole truth about his research. Most of his ilk want to make the next great discovery about Martin Septim, but this guy was trying to find about the Hero of Kvatch. Said that there was more to be said about the Hero than what this history books tell, but what's there to say? The Champion lived in the lap of luxury until they died or disappeared or whatever. Maybe it's a good conversation for these scholars, but it's ancient history now. Well, he's not going to find out whatever it was he wanted. A dead scholar is one that doesn't learn anymore.

* * *

_Sun's Dawn, 11, 4E 201_

The city is still a terrible place. Haven't had so much as a bite in days. Word got out that the scholar died I guess. I'll keep looking.

* * *

_Sun's Dawn, 15, 4E 201_

I'm beginning to think the past is never going to let go. I found a job. It's steady work too. No more cave diving. Smugglers have a tunnel under the city that dumps out near the lake and under the walls near the castle. My job's to keep people from asking questions and deal with the ones that do. Good news is I got to kill a Justicar the other day. The fool elf was being paid to ignore us and got too greedy. We planted his body with a rival. Let them get the fallout. This is only slightly more reputable than banditry, but at least I've got a roof and steady pay.

* * *

_First Seed, 18, 4E 201_

Got to sleep with one eye open. Almost got a knife in the back last night. The guy's dead now, but he had friends and they aren't happy. I don't know what I did to piss them off but I'm not going to make amends. If they want to try me they can. They'll end up at the bottom of the lake just like their friend.

* * *

_First Seed, 27, 4E 201_

Emmet gave me a bottle of skooma today. Part of me wants to drink it. I'd forget for a while what I'm doing. All of this meaningless running around. Where am I going? But I won't. I saw what others who hit the bottle end up like. I won't be a coward. Not from myself. Then I really would be beyond saving I think. Besides, the bottle's worth more to someone else and coins in my pocket is a good thing.

* * *

_Rain's Hand, 2, 4E 201_

Regretting selling that skooma. It would be useful right about now. Had to settle for several ales instead. The job today was botched because of those idiots that have been trying to get me dead since I killed their friend. Nearly got us all killed trying to make sure that I was caught by guards. We lost our shipment, and Remmy's mad as the Void. He put them in the old cells under the city and flogged them for being stupid. I think he should just kill them. It would take a load off my mind. The rest of the mates are shaken. We're keeping low and staying out of trouble for now.

* * *

_Rain's Hand, 11, 4E 201_

The guards know where we are. Someone tipped them off. Remmy left the bastards in their cells while we ran. Hopefully they'll get executed and the guards will be too caught up in paperwork to come for the rest of us. The Capital is getting too hot. We might need to move out entirely.

* * *

_Rain's Hand, 14, 4E 201_

On my own again. Remmy got killed by Thalmor. I barely made it out alive. The city's not safe for me. I saw a wanted poster with my name on it today. I'm out of here as soon as the streets clear.

* * *

_Rain's Hand, 22, 4E 201_

Horse Theft. That's what they caught me for. Good news is I'm out of the Capital. Bad news is, they took all my gear and coin. I've got my axe and a shirt, but hardly anything else. I'd fight to get it back, but the Thalmor are on my heels. I saw them sniffing around town today. Caused a bit of a stir. I'll have to leave my stuff. The guards are letting me go now though and I've got to make it out of here before the elves catch me.

* * *

_4E 201_

Been running for I don't know how long. Finally lost the elves. I'll ask what the day is when I get to Bruma tomorrow. Thinking of going to Morrowind, but there's more elves there. I don't know if those damned dark-skinned fetchers like the Thalmor bastards or not, but I can't stay in Cyrodiil.

* * *

_Second Seed, 12, 4E 201_

I found someone who wants out of Cyrodiil as much as I do, and they're willing to pay full price for a bodyguard to see them over the border to Skyrim. If the city's taught me anything, it's that this guy has something to hide. I can't tell yet if it's just that he's a mage (and a bad one at hiding his craft) or that he's murdered someone. Knowing my luck, he used magic to murder someone, and the Justicars will get me anyway.

* * *

_Second Seed, 13, 4E 201_

Anthony (my client's name) finally admitted that he was a mage. After I showed him that I could cast fireballs he confessed that he was trying to get to the College of Winterhold to study, the only reputable place in the entire empire that dares to foster magic since the Oblivion Crisis. I agreed to take him. This will be the second time I see Skyrim, though hopefully I get farther than the foothills bordering Hammerfell. I'll admit that I'm a little wary. The rumors of the rebellions have turned into confirmed tales, though the Imperial Guards have nothing to say on the matter. I don't remember much of what mother told me about Skyrim, other than that's where my ancestry was from. But from what I hear, one of the yharls (their equivalent or a lord, I guess) has gone rogue and is waging war on the empire on a countrywide scale. Stormcloaks, I think they were called. And from what I hear, they aren't exactly losing. I don't know if that bodes well or ill. I sympathize with wanting to put Talos back in the Pantheon, but can the empire afford to strike up another war with the Thalmor? I don't know the answer.

* * *

_Second Seed, 16, 4E 201_

It's well into spring, but the bite in the air would convince any sane man that winter just released it's last breath. The Border Mountains between Skyrim and Cyrodiil are before us now, and I find that my blood is beckoning for the adventures that this new land will undoubtedly bring. I never thought myself a mage. I can do some basic fireballs, but mostly I stick to healing. It's more useful. But if the College is everything that Anthony says it is, maybe I'll put my axe to rest and take up spells instead. That is, if we get to the College. The way my luck had panned out these last few years, I'm not hoping for much more than to live to see another dawn.


	3. Homecoming

Recently I was driving through the mountains of Tennessee, and that was really the inspiration for the fog in the beginning of this chapter. We were on the highway when we were in the thickest part of it and I just kept looking and looking but never saw anything just because it was white in every direction. While that made traffic scary, it was a really surreal experience that I wanted to hit on in the intro here. This is an all-action chapter, and I hope you guys enjoy it~

* * *

The smell of pines was thick in the air, the mists of a foggy morning moving down the mountain sides like a shawl slowly being pulled into the valleys and the rifts. Curtains of white obscured objects in the looming dawn, blurring the forms of trees and mountains and danger until all that could be seen were indistinct smudged shadows lurking on the edges of peripheral vision. Bright green eyes scanned the gloom, searching for shapes that moved in the indistinct murk, betraying a possible attack. A tall Nord man with long brown hair moved quietly over the dewy ground, a thick belt across his broad chest supporting the weight of a huge two-bladed axe. He wore little in the way of armor, a pair of boots a size too small and iron gauntlets that were well past their prime. Despite the lack of equipment, the man was still intimidating, with a cold piercing stare as chilly as a winter's blizzard.

Behind him trudged along a slightly older fellow, robed in thick wool dyed brown and wore a hood that coved his partially balding scalp. He wore no weapons but clung to the book in his hand like a lifeline, his wide eyes scanning the surrounding mists without seeing much of anything. "Are you sure we're headed in the right direction?" His voice was unnaturally high pitched, betraying the fear that he tried to hide behind his hood and he cleared his throat after speaking, embarrassed that he sounded so obviously afraid.

"Yes." Came the gruff response, the warrior's deep voice cutting through the sound-dampening fog easily. "This pass goes to Helgen. As long as we don't scale the mountains-" the mage's eyes strayed to what little he could see of the steep foresty hills on either side of them "-then we can't get lost."

The silence following that statement was deafening, broken only by the sounds of their boots disturbing the dead vegetation that blew across the indistinct path under their feet. The fog was steadily clearing, dissolved by the cold sun that had begun to peek through. Again the silence was broken, but this time by a distant rhythmic thumping sound coming from directly ahead of the two travelers.

"Joren…" The mage walked up to the large warrior, who had stopped in his tracks.

"I hear it." He replied, his hand reaching for the well-worn grip of his axe. "Go stand near the trees. Go." The mage nodded and quickly went to the tree line, leaving Joren standing alone in the middle of the pass, squinting into the mist.

The source of the sound revealed its self suddenly, the curtains of mist pulling back and what appeared to be half a battalion of men with blue sashes and padded chainmail armor came rushing straight down the pass in ragged rows and columns. At their head was a fierce looking man wearing an impressive coat with fur lining and shoulders, a frown set on his face that was definable even from a hundred paces away.

Joren moved quickly, having no desire to get caught up in the procession and trampled underfoot, quickly backing up for the tree line to cover his mage companion in case this new party wasn't friendly. The man leading the group of soldiers called them to a halt by raising his hand, their forced march coming to an abrupt end. "Who goes?" He called, his voice deep and full of authority. It was the voice of a man who knew his place and was used to giving orders.

Joren never managed a reply. A hail of arrows hissed from the trees, falling on the soldiers and felling half a dozen before they drew their weapons and with a roaring battle cry charged the trees. From the mists a horde of soldiers wearing Imperial livery descended on the blue-clad soldiers. The mist obscured some of the fighting, making it hard to tell who was winning the opening stage of the skirmish but doing little to dampen the sound of steel and iron clashing in the desperate struggled that unfolded right before him.

What had he just stepped into?

Before he could even shout for the mage to run he was set upon by an Imperial soldier and was forced to stop a sword blow that would surely have killed him with an awkward block with his axe. The man retreated a step, lifting his shield in response to the unexpected defense. Joren bore the man no ill will. He was just an idiot with orders standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. That didn't stop him however when he brought down his axe on the Imperial's shield, splitting the wood with a mighty crack and bringing the man to the ground in the same move. The soldier only had a second to contemplate his death before the axe head came down again, shearing through his light leathers and splitting his chest open wide with a spray of blood that coated his chest and face.

When Joren looked up it was to see half a dozen more soldiers coming for him and readied his axe for the fight. Before they even had a chance at him, something in his blood roared to life, the hairs of his arms standing on end. Joren whipped his head around, meeting the eyes of the man who had been leading the blue-clad soldiers. His mouth was open, forming words that resonated with something that slept dormant deep inside his very bones; the words passing over him like a familiar song. Joren braced himself, a subconscious action that had nothing to do with the Imperials charging him. Nothing could prepare him for the force that pushed against him in the next split second however. It was if the air had formed into a tight fist and had rammed him backwards, sending him straight off his feet.

He didn't remember the tree he hit, or the whisper of power that cracked some hidden barrier in his mind. His world went black and the battle raged on without him.

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He was conscience of almost falling over, but not much else. His vision swam when he tried to open his eyes, the world blurry and spinning so fast that he had to shut them again or else risk becoming ill. The throbbing in the back of his head doubled in intensity as they hit another pothole, nearly sending him pitching sideways. When he reached out to stop himself he found his hands tied together and aching from blood loss. Awareness flooded into him once he came to that realization. He was sitting on something wooden, a bench of some sort. It was cold, the bite in the air intensifying since he last remembered. When he opened his eyes it was to see snow covering sturdy pines, or at least that's what he thought it was. His vision was still blurred, his eyes rebelling against the daylight sun with sharp pains that went straight to the base of his skull. One of the soldiers in blue looked up, noticing that he'd finally come to consciousness.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake." Joren had to try hard not to head butt the man for the idiotic comment. The blonde warrior was lucky that his head was pounding and his hands were tied together or else there would have been a bruise coming in his direction. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there." He nodded his head in the direction of a mousy looking man that hadn't seen the inside of a tub in probably weeks.

"Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy." The man replied with a fair amount of bitterness, and Joren silently felt his stomach rise. The Stormcloaks? That's who he was with? He was startled to see the man with the impressive fur coat sitting next to him on the opposite end of the bench and was tempted to strike up a conversation, but was disappointed that it would be a terribly one-way affair, given that the man's mouth was bound. He must be a powerful spell caster to throw half a dozen men off their feet just by yelling some arcane mumbo jumbo. "If they hadn't been looking for you-" the man continued, unaware of the revelation he had just given Joren "-I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell. You there," He looked directly at Joren, apparently needing a sympathetic ear. "You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's the Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

If either of them noticed the rueful grin that he shot the horse thief, they didn't comment, though the horse thief looked disheartened by the expression, reading into it quickly enough. The blonde warrior wearing the Stormcloak livery continued right along. "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

"You can say that again." Joren sighed and tried flexing his fingers, experimentally tugging at his restraints to see if he could get the blood back into his purpling appendages.

"Shut up back there." The carriage driver called, barely even bothering to look over his shoulder at the prisoners in his wagon.

With the maturity of a ten year old, Joren stuck his tongue out at the back of the driver's head and continued trying to loosen his bindings, hoping for a shot at freedom. He didn't know where they were going, but he'd spend enough time under Imperial care to know that he wouldn't like it. "Damn. Who knew they taught advanced knot tying to foot soldiers?" He hissed under his breath, lifting his bound hands to examine the expertly wound length of rope that bound his wrists.

The Stormcloak soldier seemed amused by his struggles. "Perhaps if you tried biting it?" Joren shot him a less than amused look, but considered the option when more wrist twisting only got him rope burn.

"What's wrong with him, huh?" The thief asked, quickly growing bored of watching Joren struggle against his ropes. By the red around his own wrists, it was obvious that he had tried the same thing and given up long ago.

"Watch your tongue!" The soldier immediately became irate, his earlier tolerant mood quickly washed away under the threat of a perceived slight. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?"

_Ooooh_, so this was a yahrl. He'd been wondering what one looked like. Though he was doubtful of the High King remark. He didn't think that kings traipsed around the countryside magic-ing random strangers. Although this _was_ Skyrim. They were a little backwards here according to some.

"You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you…" The realization hit the thief almost physically, his eyes popping wide with naked fright. "Oh gods, where are they taking us?"

"You've got to be _shitting_ me." Joren moaned and dropped his head into his bound hands. "Of all the worst luck…" He knew exactly where they were taking them. There was only one place in all the world that the Empire put traitors, and that road usually ended with a noose or a few dozen rolling heads.

"I don't know where we're going…" The soldier said, turning his face to the road ahead, his tone indicating that he had already accepted what was to come. "…but Sovngarde awaits."

That more than anything put the fear of the divine in Joren. He couldn't go to Sovngard, not now. Not when he'd barely done anything to justify his twenty-three years spent breathing. All he could see then was a distant smile from a hazy memory made as a boy and the first paragraph of his journal, written in the flowing hand of his mother.

"No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening!" The thief said, his panic overriding any control he might have on his mouth in situations like these.

"Hey, what village are you from horse thief?" The soldier was calm as a lake, if a little sad, obviously trying to calm the panicking man.

Bitter about their situation, the man shot the soldier a sour look. "Why do you care?"

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home." Came the steady reply.

"Home." Joren echoed, letting his head fall back to the sky and ignored the conversation between the two. Where was "home" for someone like him? He couldn't count Bruma as home, though it was the last place he'd had a bed and a decent meal, and over the years that had become what _home_ meant. As the stone gate loomed above them and the Imperials called out to each other about the awaiting execution he looked to one of the Imperial flags snapping in the breeze, watching the sway of the material. Not even the presence of the Thalmor could raise his ire now. The soldier made a comment about how the Imperial walls used to make him feel safe, and Joren couldn't help but to make a noise of disagreement. "Imperial walls have always been a symbol of trouble." He muttered darkly under his breath, scanning the courtyard that they pulled into and the carriage stopped.

"End of the line."

For years, he had thought that he would one day end up on the headsman's block. Never had he imagined that it would be because he'd been simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Arrested for theft, murder, or pillaging, he could understand. But these Imperials had no idea who he was. They even had the name of the horse thief on their list, but not him. His crimes from Cyrodiil had not followed him to Skyrim apparently, but the long arm of the law had finally caught up anyway. He was being executed because of a possibility of affiliation with people who he'd barely even heard about until this very day. Briefly he considered making a break for it, but after seeing the horse thief take several arrows to the back, he decided that he would rather face the axe. At least it would be over fast, unlike a punctured lung.

The General was having some final words with the would-be usurper king when a sound like a dying elk only a thousand times deeper echoed across the mountains and Joren looked around for the source of the distant noise. His heart thudded in his chest inexplicably at the sound, something in him pushing at his chest as if it wanted to claw its way out of his throat and return a bellow. The others gathered in the courtyard raised their eyes to the sky as well, but strange noises on the wind weren't going to stop this execution.

Silently he listened to the Priestess of Arkay be rudely interrupted and couldn't help but grin. That was certainly one way to face death. Even on his knees, the soldier retained some of his pride. When his own name was called, Joren stepped up, his face a mask. This wasn't exactly how he wanted to die: A nobody. But it was probably what he deserved, and he'd face it. Again the sound pierced the deathly silence that had fallen with the first man's death and the villagers had quieted and all eyes were on the sky. Whatever was making the noise, it was closer and he could see the unease on the faces of the soldiers around him. The captain in charge would not be quailed however and she forced Joren on his knees to face the box that was now occupied with a severed head.

"Easy woman." Joren hissed, refusing to go down without having the last word. Behind him he could hear the Captain snort in annoyance and purposefully step on his foot, her heavy book nearly crushing his toes. He glanced up from the severed neck staring him in the face to unload a long tributary on the finer points of being a woman when he caught sight of the beast making the noise. It was only a flick of movement between the crest of a mountain and the shadow of the nearest tower, but it was enough to make his blood run cold. "By the gods!"

"What in Oblivion is that?" A man yelled outside of his sight range.

"Sentries! What do you see?" The Captain called, still as calm as ever despite the hysteria that had begun to bubble in the ranks of her soldiers, the headsman however was concentrated on chopping off his head and started lifting his axe to do just that as the creature flared its wings to land on top of the tower.

"Dragon!" Joren hissed when the creature landed roughly on top of the stone outpost, the ground quaking at its touch so much so that the headsman overbalanced, caught off guard by the sudden intense tremor and was sent flailing backwards on top of his axe. The bubbles popped, the hysteria breaking out in full force. Somewhere a woman screamed, but others cried out what Joren had already said, the sound of unsheathing blades echoing all around him.

Through the moment of panic the dragon simply looked over the flurry that it had caused, then opened its maw and released a fearsome sound that shook Joren to his very core. But never once did he look away from the dragon, even as the skies clouded over and fire began to rain from the sky, scattering the guards who were desperately trying to figure out how to kill a myth come to life. The strange urge clawing up his throat reared its head again, but was quickly silenced when one of the fireballs struck close enough to knock him off the headsman's block and on his side.

He was on his feet and running after the soldier from the cart before another one of the flaming balls of fire could land on his head and strike him dead. The dragon roared, shaking the earth with its fierce cry and he was suddenly pulled back to that stormy night when he'd found out his mother had died. He had never been particularly religious, but at that moment he thanked the entire pantheon, Talos included, that this disaster had given him the chance to escape the halls of Sovngarde for one more day.


End file.
